


with this much drama it has to be raining

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Series: A Modicum of Humanity Makes Everything Harder [14]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dadwald, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Sort of Martin Cobblepot, This is set directly after Reset Room, as long as you ignore/don't care about references, it probably stands alone, now with Fixed Formatting, that don't have a lot of context outside of my universe's canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Things have settled down for Ed and Oswald, but Ed decides to shake things up with a kind gesture for Oswald: locating Martin.





	with this much drama it has to be raining

It's a cold morning. Ed's bundled up in a thick sweater and sipping away at some coffee to ward off the chill from a slight draft. He doesn’t have his own office at the local paper, but he does have a desk in a well-lit, quiet corner of the second floor of the building. He keeps to himself out of habit, often only exchanging mild pleasantries with most of the writers on his floor. The only reason he knows their names is because of his excellent memory, and some lingering survival instincts courtesy of being a citizen of Gotham.

It's easier to keep them all at arm's length even if it is a bit lonelier. It's definitely the life he's more accustomed to living.

Due to his overcautious nature he isn't used to getting phone calls at work, and the sudden ringing about sends him through the roof. Ed spares a few wary glances at the desks nearest to his, waving a shaky hand at the couple of people that bothered to turn and see what sort of fuss he's making. He grabs the phone from the cradle and leans back in his chair. “Ed Nygma, cryptic crossword puzzles, answers, and-”

“Will you save that crap for a call that isn't international?”

“Selina,” he gasps softly, glancing once again at his co-workers and turning to face the window. “Well this is a surprise. Missed me?”

“Yeah, no, did not miss how much you blather on either.”

“You seem unreasonably angry when you’re the one that called me.”

“Unreasonably?” she snaps.

“Without an apparent cause or reason- just, please, I am at  _ work _ . And you’re the one that made the call, not me.”

“Fine, okay, you want to know why I'm  _ unreasonably  _ angry? I found that kid you sent me running after.” She nearly  _ growls _ . “Did Bruce have something to do with this?”

“I- what?”

“I’m supposed to just accept that you sent me to find Oswald’s sort of kid right now? Right after I left?” She scoffs, and doesn’t allow Ed to have any time to interject. “That’s low, even for you.”

Ed flounders and clutches the cord of his phone, twisting it and kinking it up as he tries to formulate an acceptable response. “Selina, I,” he can’t help but let a nervous laugh escape, “it was a gesture. For Oswald. He,” Ed sighs, “well, you’re well aware of the situation.”

“Maybe I’ll spring for a few minutes for a refresher,” she says, still sounding wary but no longer yelling at him through the phone.

“I’m sure you can make a good guess. Faked death, sent away, you know, standard protection methods.”

“Yeah no shit dipshit I saw the car blow up.”

_ That’s not even the half of it _ , he thinks. Ed rubs his mouth with his hand. “There’s a photo, too. Faked, also, but ah, well Zsasz is rather convincing when he has the right resources.”

“He fake died  _ twice _ ,” she summarizes.

“Yes, but unless you have news to the contrary then he is alive and well.”

“Didn’t get a chance to ask but, sure, he’s alive.”

“Great, excellent. I have a second set of instructions for you.” He scrambles to pull a sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk. “Holmes’ abode, but a cheaper affair. I’m a respite for the weary-”

“Can we not?”

Ed looks up at the ceiling and sighs wearily. “I am attempting to ensure that there will be no interception of this information-”

“Ed, no one is looking for this kid. Except you, I guess, but I’m not really getting a ‘tie up loose ends’ vibe from you.”

“Maybe not in the way you’re thinking,” he mumbles. “Just go to the motel on the highway just outside the north end of the city. There’s a room rented, number 221, and it should have a B scratched into the wood beside that. Sherlock Holmes fan, probably.”

“Do you mean you?”

“No I- look will you just go get the instructions? They’re taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer. I won’t say which one but I’m sure you can figure that part out.”

-

Ed is surprisingly thankful they need groceries, because if they hadn't he would have gotten Selina's follow up scream-call at home instead of the frozen food section at the local market.

“You seriously made the  _ instructions  _ riddles too!?”

Ed watches an older woman side eye him and start scurrying away. “Lower your volume. I am in public.”

“I'm charging you extra, I mean it. Are you kidding me? I know you were  _ The Riddler _ or whatever but retirement usually means you stop this shit.”

“I wanted to be cryptic-”

“Your  _ brain  _ is cryptic!” she snaps.

“I don't want anyone knowing what I'm having you do,” he hisses. He also shoves the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can pick out some carrots from the produce section.

“What exactly am I doing? And no, I'm not solving these. Just tell me.”

“I,” he pauses and sighs, “don't know yet. Not entirely.”

“What.”

“I haven't made a decision about what to do with this information,” he admits. He places a couple onions to his basket before adding, “I'm the only one that knows you're there, excluding you of course.”

Selina is quiet for a few seconds. He's thankful for the respite from her angry snarling, and when she does decide to speak again she's much less angry. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“I'll send you the answers,” Ed says. “Later, not right this second, and I may have to dodge Oswald.”

“Thought you were doing this  _ for  _ him.”

“He may need a bit of convincing,” Ed says. “For now tail him if you can, get a feel for his schedule or habits.” He steps in line behind the same old woman from the frozen section and scowls down at her droopy hat and overloaded cart. “It may take me awhile to get you more information. Just make sure he stays safe in the meantime.”

-

Ed finds a parcel on his desk a week later. Alarm bells are going off in his brain, anything from bombs to something alive and poisonous and ready to bite, but that was Gotham. Here his biggest concern is getting a paper cut or eye strain from his tablet. Sometimes he misses the hay day, but only until he can hardly walk because of his leg or can't sleep for days on end because he thought he saw Strange in a crowd.

He still keeps his distance, keeping one eye on the parcel as he walks around his desk and hangs up his coat on a small hook on the back wall. Does he open it while sitting or standing? Sitting provides some cover but not a quick escape, but standing would expose more-

“It won't bite,” someone just outside his space says lightly. He looks up and sees a flash of golden blonde hair, and he blinks a few times until he can focus properly and see that it's just his coworker, with a name that either reminds him of fruit or maybe a dessert, and she smiles at him until he laughs with relief.

“It's just unusual,” he admits to the dessert woman, thankful she doesn't seem worried by his panic. “I don't tend to get packages I'm not expecting.”

“Could be a fan,” she posits. Ed doesn't manage to hold in the involuntary shiver. “Avid puzzle lovers tend to gravitate.”

“I hope not,” he whispers. He smiles at her and begins busying himself with his work, and she takes the hint and leaves him to his mystery package.

He should have gotten a closer look before acting suspicious, because there's several telltale strands of what appear to be cat hair underneath the packing tape. He slices it open using his letter opener and carefully opens the flaps, wanting to keep what's inside to himself until he knows what he's actually gotten.

On top is a yellow envelope, bulging from whatever is inside. He opens it first and dumps out a thick lab notebook and a handwritten letter, from Victor and Nora respectively. The only explanation on the notebook is a single sticky note with 'read it’ hastily written in all caps.

The first line of the letter from Nora makes him chuckle. (I know Victor didn't say it nicely but he would appreciate it if you could read over his notes and give him feedback.) He slides the notebook into his shoulder bag beside his books and tablet so he can read it later. He considers reading the rest of Nora's letter, but decides to fold it back up and slip it into his bag for later when he's in a less open and exposed place.

In the bottom of the box he finds a few more stray cat hairs and two envelopes of developed photos, plus a second yellow envelope that isn't bulging but is far from empty. He peers inside at the papers, which detail various aspects of the young man's life from his address to his course schedule for a Masters program for library sciences. There's also a slim textbook for ASL, which Ed frowns at for a few seconds before slipping it back into the envelope and moving on to the photos.

Ed never had the opportunity to meet the boy, but Oswald tended to ramble about their brief time together after glass three or four of a nice, full bodied red. There's a vague sense of recognition despite the lack of an introduction, from the slim, lean frame to the cozy cardigans; it feels not unlike Ed's time on campus, dragging him back to days at work in the library with his course books spread out on a large table or nights studying for exams. Martin's hair boasts a curliness Ed's never achieved, but his hair falls in his face the same way that always annoyed Ed when he was bending over his notebook and scribbling down his latest thoughts during a brainstorming session. It's a kinship, he decides. He can see a great deal of himself in the lonely looking photographs taken around Martin's campus and outside his apartment building.

He can't imagine how Selina managed to get this close to Martin without him realizing he's being followed. A boy that's been within Oswald's orbit had to have learned to watch his back, and he's gotten the extra lesson of having to fake die because of his proximity to Oswald, twice. And unless she's omitting important details to spite Ed, there doesn't appear to be anyone Martin chooses to keep in close proximity. Anyone entering his vicinity would be immediately noticed and possibly feared.

Ed picks up his phone and calls Selina. She doesn't answer, but he's almost thankful of the fact. He's already mentally rehearsed what he wants from her at least a dozen times. “Approach him, but in public. Somewhere he can feel relatively safe. Give him package two. Tell him,” he pauses, “tell him Penguin sends his regards.”

-

As careful as Ed is, as much as he meticulously plans everything he undertakes, he neglected to have certain measures in place to counteract Oswald when he can tell Ed is up to something.

Selina hasn't gone dark, far from it, she's called to complain every day the past week, leaving long winded, angry messages on Ed's phone when he screens his calls. It seems Martin must remember her to some capacity, because he's been dodging her on campus and not returning to his apartment at night.

He waits until grocery day to call her back, stuffing some imported pasta and tomatoes into his basket and suggesting, “try the library.”

“You're serious? Who hides in a library?”

“It's a place that is, by definition, quiet. Any noise is suspicious to a degree. He may feel safest there.” He handles a small bundle of herbs and sniffs them once before frowning and setting them back on the shelf. “It's also his area of study.”

“Uh huh.” She doesn't sound very impressed with his theory.

“It's where I would go,” he adds. He finds a better clump of herbs on a higher shelf and adds them to his basket. “Try some of the upper floors, maybe back in the back. If there are any study rooms or offices-” Ed nearly drops his basket before exclaiming, “he's a grad student. Stupid,” Ed mutters to himself and moves so he's in a back corner of the store. “You never listed his office.”

“His office?”

“There's a non-zero chance he has an office, or possibly a group office. Either way. He's there.” Ed does his best to contain his excitement to avoid getting any more glares from the floppy hat woman. He takes a deep breath and reiterates, “If he's a TA he has to have some sort of space where students can reach him. Find out his full schedule and it should include office hours and a room.”

“Yeah, okay.” Selina at least sounds more supportive of this theory, and when she hangs up, it isn't with an angry snap in Ed's ear.

He switches his main focus back to his plans for dinner for the next few days, letting his mind set aside thoughts of Martin and college so he can recall the recipes he selected earlier. His body is on autopilot, grabbing ingredients as he mentally skims for overlapping ingredients or easy alternatives when he can't seem to find the right spice.

Ed goes straight for the kitchen when he gets home, putting away some ingredients and leaving the others out on the counter so he can begin making a soup. It's been bitterly cold, enough to keep Oswald housebound most days, and Ed's hoping a hearty, warm bowl of soup will help bring up his core temp in ways long soaks in the tub have not.

He hears the telltale approach of Oswald's limp while his back is turned, and then a much louder, much angrier smack as he slams something onto the table. Ed jumps about a foot in the air and whirls around, holding a pepper out as a makeshift weapon. Oswald’s glare falters, no doubt because of Ed's reaction, but it also doesn't go away completely. He clears his throat and gestures with a wave of his hand at the small pile of- oh. “I thought those were in a drawer.”

“I needed a check book- that is not the point!” Oswald fumes at him and sends the papers and photos flying so they're scattered across the table, a few making it past the edges and fluttering to the ground. “What do you- how could you-”

“We aren't in Gotham,” Ed whispers. “He's safe- Oswald, please. You can't honestly think anyone even remembers Martin. They think he's  _ dead _ .”

Oswald closes his eyes, and when he opens them again they're shining and wet. He carefully picks up one of the photos (a cafe on campus, Martin is drinking tea and reading a book) and brushes a single pad of his finger across the glossy surface.

“You should have told me,” he whispers.

“You would have refused,” Ed says, just as quiet. He sets the pepper aside and bends over long enough to pick up another photograph (Martin walking, destination unknown) and holds it up next to Oswald’s. “In any case, I wasn't sure what Selina would find. I didn't want to get your hopes up if things had gone south since his departure.”

“I knew he was  _ alive _ ,” Oswald says. “I had evidence to suggest it, at least. The checks are deposited the first Friday of every month.”

“Photographic evidence is a bit more compelling.” Ed picks up a small stack of photos and puts them in Oswald's trembling hands. “I'm a snapshot in time, but only for one-”

“Ed.”

“Memories. You have so few and half of them are violent.” Oswald focuses more on flipping through his small stack of photos then Ed's commentary. “You have a rare opportunity. Not necessarily once in a lifetime, but rare nonetheless.”

“In fifteen years the only contact we've had was a monthly check. He's a notation in my register, and I a deposit in his account.” Oswald sets the photos on the table in a neat stack. “It's safer that way.”

Oswald starts to walk away, but Ed reaches out to hold him in place. He isn't brushed off, he swears Oswald actually leans into the touch. “There’s more,” he says. “I may have, Oswald you should know I firmly believe you'll regret not taking this opportunity-”

“Out with it,” he croaks. His cheeks are pinking up, as are the tips of his ears.

“I gave him our contact information,” he says. Oswald sucks in a breath. “At least, I'm trying too. Selina may have startled him.”

“If she hurts him-” Oswald is cut off when Ed's phone chimes, and he parts long enough to pull up a text from Selina. It's a photo; it's somewhat blurry but not terribly, not enough to miss the look of fear and confusion and hope on Martin's face as he holds package two. He pulls Oswald closer and shows him the evidence. “What is this?”

“That's package two,” Ed explains. “I found his birth certificate, some extra cash, a few other things he'll need to get himself a passport. If he wants to come here, at least. He's supposed to send confirmation of a flight itinerary if he accepts, per my instructions.”

“Were you going to wait until he landed to tell me?”

“Are you saying you don't  _ want  _ him to visit?” he asks, sincerely, because he can't seem to parse exactly what's going through Oswald's head but he can tell he's conflicted.

“I'm not fond of finding out just how much he's come to hate me,” he says. He takes Ed's phone from him and stares down at the photo. “I imagine it's quite a lot, not that I can really blame him.”

“Penguin sends his regards,” Ed says. Oswald squints up at him, confused. “It's what she was supposed to tell him. Look,” Ed points to Martin's expression, “that's not hate. Hurt, maybe.” Oswald actually _ whines. _ “You saved him, Oswald. Gave him this,” Ed gestures to the photos of Martin on campus. “He should be grateful. He _ has to be _ grateful.” They both have to know he's talking out of his ass right now but Oswald doesn't try to refute Ed's claim. “I can't believe I'm having to tell you to give yourself a little credit. Have faith,” he says firmly, taking hold of both of Oswald’s shoulders as he does. “He learned from _ you _ . If he hated you he knew where to find you to get even.”

Oswald smiles only once, only for a second, and he nods, voice shaking as much as the rest of him as he says, “If he refuses I'll never forgive you.”

-

Ed turns their car onto the main road leading to the airport with the intent to park in short term parking. He has every intention of meeting Martin inside and not making the poor boy (man, he's a young man but he's certainly not a child) try to find them in a crowded airport during a peak travel season. If he listened he only has a carry on bag and not checked luggage, or possibly Oswald has replied to the flight itinerary with various well meaning pieces of advice about the spring weather, and the bed to bring extra clothing along.

“Here we are,” he says cheerily. Oswald is hardly breathing, let alone talking, but Ed doesn't try to force any conversation. He doesn't have any proof, but he's certain Oswald didn't sleep well, if at all. Giving him the opportunity to sleep in the car, even if he refuses to take it, is the most kindness Ed can order on such a stressful day.

He parks in the closest spot he can manage and finally turns his attention to Oswald. “Oswald, we're-” his mouth have open when Oswald looks back at him with absolute panic in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

He'll have to ask him how he can manage to pull off angry looks while nearly hyperventilating, because Ed seems to remember never being capable of more than a wide eyed look of fear. He offers Oswald his hand and he immediately regrets it when his bones creak from the pressure of Oswald's grip, but he clenches his jaw and soothes his fingers over tense tendons until his vice grip is down to a limp hold. All the fire has drained out of Oswald, leaving him with wet eyes and downturned lips.

“He should be through customs,” Ed says gently. “Or, he should at least be in line.”

“I can't,” he croaks.

“You- it's a bit late. He's already here.”

“I can't go  _ inside _ ,” Oswald clarifies.

“But-”

“I am going to make a  _ scene _ ,” Oswald says. Ed's mouth opens with a silent “oh". “I would prefer if I was allowed to make it in relative privacy.”

“Alright,” Ed says. He settles back in his seat and Oswald shakes his shoulder just as he starts closing his eyes. “Hm?”

“What are you doing?” Oswald snaps. “Don't just  _ abandon  _ him in a giant airport! Go get him!”

Ed chuckles to himself and leans over long enough to kiss Oswald's forehead before opening the door and stepping outside in one relatively fluid motion. He buttons up his peacoat and makes his way to the international gate, showing only a brief glance back at Oswald before he enters the terminal and a gust of warm air reddens up his cheeks.

He makes his way through crowds of families reuniting and rambunctious college students (excluding Martin, who doesn't seem to have a rambunctious bone in his body) into the heart of baggage claim. Ed avoids the main crowd by standing just off the beaten path, nestled in an alcove near a recycling bin. Martin is slightly above average height, possibly due to the height of his curls, but Ed can't seem to find him within the bustling crowd of travelers.

Just as he's beginning to entertain the idea of having Martin paged he stands out among the masses, standing completely still at people push past him, one hand curled tightly around the handle of his small rolling bag and the other holding the strap of his laptop bag. Ed watches him scan the edges of the room and realizes he must be looking for Oswald, or maybe Oswald's old hair, which tended to stand out and stood tall, well past Oswald's shorter frame.

Ed takes the initiative and pushes away from the wall to walk over. There's a moment where their eyes lock and Martin looks like he'll bolt, but there are plenty of witnesses around, so he watches Ed approach with trepidation and one leg slightly bent at the knee, ready to run if he recognizes trouble.

“Hello,” Ed says with a smile once he reaches Martin. “I'm Ed Nygma, Oswald's,” he stumbles over several identifiers to call himself and settles on, “companion. I contacted you on his behalf.”

Ed has to take a moment to process just how familiar Martin looks in his slacks and cardigan, not unlike the clothes Ed's currently wearing under his peacoat. “Oh, you'll want a coat,” he says once he's no longer lost in his own head.

Martin lets go of his bag and his hands begin moving in a way that Ed recognizes as sign language but nothing beyond that means anything to him. “Sorry, I am, I'm aware you sign but I'm afraid I'm far from fluent.”

(That still may be too generous. He's managed to teach himself to spell his name and a few words of interest, but the structure perplexes him and still images can only impart so much.)

Martin reaches into his laptop case and grabs out a small pad of paper and a pen. He scribbles something down and hands it over to Ed.  _ Where is Oswald? _

“Just outside,” Ed assures him. “It’s somewhat difficult to traverse through large groups of people with a cane. If you're ready, we can go to him.”

It's quite possibly the most accidentally insightful thing he's ever said, because what little confidence Martin had seems to waver. Ed tries to hand over the notepad to see what exactly is wrong, but Martin refuses to take it. He gestures to the spot by the recycling bin, still blissfully devoid of any other pedestrians, and Ed follows, still carrying the notepad and fussing with one of the dog eared corners at the bottom. Martin isn't distressed or panicking, but he's not as excited as Ed hoped.

“He misses you,” Ed says. Martin's head pops up so fast his curls bounce a little. “He's told me about you, more than once. He’s terribly maudlin after too much wine.” Instead of laughing, or at least smiling, Martin looks like he's trying not to cry. He's going to have to work on his comedic commentary. “I'm sure he'll hate that I told you this but he's not inside because he's afraid.” Martin's confused, very, enough to shock him into letting a single tear fall. “He thinks you hate him.”

It's a little mean in hindsight, but it also gets Martin to stand up straight and start moving towards the door. It's actually the wrong door, and Ed takes the lead after he manages to catch up, but the newfound confidence is better than having to play liaison for the two of them when they're only a few hundred yards apart from one another.

“He should be by the car-oh, Oswald,” he stutters them all to a standstill just beyond the awning. Oswald is holding an open umbrella, standing in the rain that can't have started more than five minutes ago.

“It's raining,” is all he says. Ed boggles at him, at the umbrella, at the whole situation really. Fifteen years apart and the eloquent, well spoken Oswald Cobblepot is reduced to laconic commentaries about the weather. “Martin,” he nods once.

Martin signs something back, a single hand gesture. Ed repeats the motion (open palm, thumb touching forehead, then hand moves out without changing shape) to commit it to memory and look it up later. Oswald smiles, bemused, but he knows less ASL than Ed, if he even knows anything beyond what it is. Martin either doesn't get the reaction he wanted or has more to say than tearful staring can convey, because he reaches for Ed without taking his eyes off Oswald, and Ed interprets this correctly as a request for his notepad.

Ed can't see what Martin is writing at this angle, and when he tentatively holds it up for Oswald it's away from him, but whatever it says makes Oswald bark out a single hysterical laugh/so, and he uses his free hand to pull Martin into a long overdue hug; he doesn't drop his umbrella, using it to shield them both from the drizzle, and Martin's notepad ends up behind Oswald’s back. Ed keeps his comments to himself as they embrace, taking the opportunity to circle the pair to get a closer look at the phrase that undid fifteen years of separation so thoroughly.

_ I understand. _


End file.
